


The Affections of His Beloved

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [144]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Jealousy, M/M, Prostitute Thor, Saloon Owner Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 12:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16017920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The company at theAsgardiasaloon is the finest in three counties. Loki's seen to that.





	The Affections of His Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Western and A perfect halo of gold hair and lightning sets you off against the planet's last dance. Just for a minute, the silver forked sky lit you up like a star that I will follow… Prompts from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator%22).

The saloon sat in the center of town, two shakes from the train station and two more from the depot. It wasn’t that Loki had planned it that way, becoming Hancock’s unofficial heart, but in the five years since he’d taken over the place, so it had become.

Every town out that way had a watering hole; the bigger ones sometimes two. But there was something special about the _Asgardia_ , a dual sense of indulgence and belonging that set his establishment far and above the sorts of places most of his customers had ever been inside. The liquor, for one thing; the locals had taken to calling it _nectar of the gods_ , a name that had stuck at first and then spread. The furniture, too, had an air of sophistication about it. At home, everybody sat on chairs of rough wood struck straight from trees, practically, but in the _Asgardia_ , they planted themselves on what seemed like works of art: hand-carved and carefully painted, some with feather cushions and some without, depending on one’s preference.

And then there was the company.

Sure, you could sit at a table and play highjack with your neighbors, or at the bar if you were feeling fancy and chat up some stranger new from the east. But you could also while away your time with one of the establishment’s finest, one of Loki’s absolute best. They were beautiful, all of them, their faces carved from the stars, and even when they were upstairs under you or saddled on top, there was an air of sophistication about them, a certain subtle sense that they weren’t your everyday kind of whore. There was some rotation in the stable--new ones came, old hands left--but there were three stalwarts at the _Asgardia_ , three companions-for-pay who were as much a part of the place as Loki himself. There was Val, brown and beautiful, with muscles as thick and hands as quick as any man. There was Sif, dark-eyed and quiet when she perched in your lap during a card game but fierce and demanding in bed, as interested in her own pleasure as she ever feigned to be in yours. And there was the one they called the Gentle Brute: Thor.

Thor was broad-shouldered and beautiful, as quick to smile as he’d once been to raise his fists. He’d been a brawler once, back before the war, a soldier from a family of soldiers, son to a general, true. When he was drunk enough, on Loki’s attention or on strong-tempered wine, Thor would talk about him, his father, would catalog the temperamental nature of the old man, at least where it came to his son. He would get misty about his mother, a angelic creature in his own telling who’d strapped herself to the old goat for practical reasons when really all she’d ever wanted was love, the one thing the general had never been in a position to give. And so, unknowing, Thor had followed his father’s path, his father’s wishes, and so found himself on the fields of Antietam watching his comrades die, knowing at last that this was not the life he would have chosen for himself, leading men into battle however noble the cause only to play witness to their endless, awful suffering and death.

His mother died while he was away--diphtheria, perhaps, or dengue fever--and when the Union triumphed, when his father rode out to Appomattox at Grant’s side, Thor saw no reason to return, no benefit to holding on to the past. So he’d pulled off his officer’s bars and burned his uniform in a cowshed, gathered the last of his funds and set off for the new world, for the West.

How he’d found Loki, or how Loki’d found him, was a matter of some discussion and debate. Thor had one version and Loki another and yet sometimes in their cups, they traded, one’s story flowing easily from the other man’s mouth. What mattered for the _Asgardia_ was that the universe had brought them together, had kept them in their own odd and beautiful way deeply bound to one another as the years fell away, one by one.

On nights when business slowed--in the cold, perhaps, or in the midst of the summer wet--they often sat downstairs together, Loki curled like a cat in Thor’s lap, passing the hours with talk or with music as Val played and Sif threw her head back and sang. Rare were such hours of peace, to be sure, and Loki would have it no other way; without money, the _Asgardia_ would flounder, a great ship beached on poverty’s shores. But there is a price to be paid for success, for popularity, for becoming the saloon of choice for those in three counties, and if Loki took the time to revel in those moments when the whole place was quiet, when he had the company of Thor to himself, who could blame him?

Newcomers--those passing through or those new to town--were often taken aback by Loki’s lack of jealousy, the ease by which he sold the affections of his beloved for an hourly price, sometimes several times in the same night. Those brave enough or fool enough to ask always got the same answer: a shake of the head and a wave of one long-fingered hand. “That’s my business,” Loki would say. “And none, I’m afraid, of yours. Unless you have an urge you would like him to scratch, perhaps? That, my friend, can be arranged.”

More often than not, the questioner would turn the color of roses, would flush until apples arose on each cheek--and reach for his wallet: “How much?”

This was not to say, though, that Loki didn’t burn sometimes, didn’t reach a fever pitch of fury up inside his own mind at the thought of Thor’s body opening for another, yielding up its pleasures to someone Thor had just met--or, worse, to a long-time customer, someone whom Thor looked forward to seeing, spoke of with some no small amount of affection. Strangers were one thing: they could be serviced and then disappear, back on to the train or swung up on a horse, headed west towards greener pastures. But there were a few in the counties, so small a number that Loki might count on one hand, whom Thor took some pleasure in seeing, men with fat purses and handsome faces whose presence tested every ounce of Loki’s carefully cultivated patience.

One was a captain, a fervent servant of the flag, whose face was set serious until he saw Thor descending the stairs and then it was as if the man himself had swallowed the sun: his eyes would shine, his mouth lift behind his beard into a heart-rendering grin, and Loki would grit his teeth and ask for more money, make the captain wait until he’d counted each coin and each bill. Then, when could stall no longer, Loki would murmur pleasantries-- _four hours sure; if you want more, ring the bell and we’ll see_ \--and take that one step aside, one step that signaled to Thor to come down to the floor and carry off that evening’s prize.

Loki would stew and wait, drink and be utterly charming, busy himself with greeting guests and tending bar. He would lose a few hands, win a few more, and spend the last hour of the captain’s appointment drinking, fingers wrapped tight around a busy, busy glass.


End file.
